Bomb in a Birdcage
by melkyrie
Summary: "It's—you won't believe it, I can't explain it—you have to see, George!" Post DH oneshot


Bomb in a Birdcage

Summary: "It's—you won't believe it, I can't explain it—you have to see, George!" Post DH.

[]

For the first time, when George Weasley looked out onto the horizon of his life, onto the boundless possibilities, he didn't see anything. The future had no hold for him, no lure. What could be waiting for him? It surely wasn't worth it.

Not without Fred.

In the beginning, he cried. So much he thought there was no more water in the rivers or seas because he had dripped them out his damn eyes—_the same exact shade as Fred's—_and then he found he couldn't cry anymore. He was dehydrated, and it had only been four days since Fred's _death_, and three days before the funeral, but he had no more tears left to cry. Sure, every time he looked in a mirror, moved, _spoke,_ thought and slept, he ached with an intense hollow feeling that gnawed him into a thinner and thinner shell. The rushing feeling behind his eyes promised tears, but none fell. Not anymore.

He hid from his family. Not out of shame, or that they might see Fred in him, or even in spite. He just didn't want to have their grief filling him up, while his own was already too much. It hurt them, deeply, but he could not do it. He could not submerge himself in the crushing mourning thoughts that his family was knee-deep in. He thought himself akin to a stranded man without a floating ring, bobbing in the water, wondering why it wouldn't be so much easy to dip beneath the surface and join the sea.

Really, what was ahead for him now? George knew that if he would try to overcome Fred, all could emerge as would be a ghost of his former glory. What was the point, the bright silver lining in it all? George could not see it, he felt as if he was blind and staggering in a crowd.

He drowned himself in work. He gripped his wand so tightly it made his knuckles go white, then red. He blindly followed a group around the country and repaired homes, saved slipping lives. It was long and hard labour and he managed to not see a single person with red hair for three whole days. He also managed to never shut his eyes in the entire time. Every time he did, he saw Fred.

They rebuilt houses from the ground up, mending kitchens and warming fireplaces. He volunteered in hospitals, feeding babies and cleaning up. He took a night shift guarding the ministry holding cells, reading a book every moment he was there, and never meeting the eyes of the Death Eaters. Their taunts bounced off him and fluttered to the floor, unable to touch a man who has already lost everything.

George even was able to join a raid, standing in the ranks and breaking down a Death Eater hide-out, shattering the wards and rounding up the bastards. He held a stony face the entire time, and anyone who knew him would not recognize him. Spells spoken without thinking, without feeling.

He didn't give himself pause. He didn't stop to think, to allow the slowly sinking thoughts to ooze into his brain. _I should burn down my shop. I should run away. I should get piss drunk. I should..._

_I should die._

Instead, he helped a bookstore owner mend her books back into whole objects. He stopped and picked up the galleons clattered across a store street, giving them to the owner who had been robbed. He fixed Muggle windows. He tagged along a group of wizards and put out every fire they could find in the country. He vanished a dark mark or two. He gave treats to shaking children.

Three days later found him standing in front of his shop, staring with unmoving eyes. Crawling hands of horror and guilt and hurt and _pain_ ripped up his throat violently, and he stumbled to the shop wall, sliding down and hugging his knees. He had subconsciously worked his way down the street, lending his hand along the way.

His insides felt positively shattered, he was shaking and cold. Everything was queer and blurry, and he wondered why it felt like a demon was trying to burst from his chest, because this pain could not be normal...

The world smeared awake, and Ginny was at his shoulder. Horrible hunger roared in his slimy guts, and he quivered all over.

"George, George, something—something's happened!" Ginny shook his shoulder, a strange note in her voice.

"What?" George croaked, looking up at her with _Fred's _eyes. Her eyes were filmed with moisture, and her stringy ginger hair a mess.

"It's—you won't believe it, I can't explain it—you have to see, George!"

George got up to his feet almost mechanically, following her blindly to the floo and repeating what she told him, blinking when he was told to go to Hogwarts.

The scene changed, the room slid into place and the walls shifted. Ginny was right at his heels, and he was mystified and stunned stupid to see a grin on her face. Eyes wide and shimmering, he felt her take his cold hand and lead him up staircases and corridors. He could've followed where they were going with the map implanted in his head, but it was apparent when they crossed the threshold for the Hospital Wing.

Betraying hope leapt in his chest—no, he mustn't dare wish—

In the white hospital bed, a big wrapped white bandage and white gown over his body, Fred Weasley was sitting up and alive and George felt his legs give out.

Ginny tried to keep him up but the crushing relief smushed him like a huge giants hand pressing down on his back. He heard 'magical coma' and 'thank heavens we figured it out before we buried him' but it didn't matter, because Fred was looking at him with eyes the exact same as _George's_. The injured twin swung himself out of bed despite the loud family protests and crossed the room in a big leap, taking his twin up in a hug. George sobbed, his back wracking itself into his twin's skin and shuddering horribly. Fred had tears running all over his long nose, but George's face was still dry...

...

George woke up on the street in Diagon Alley, and crumpled. Finally, _finally,_ long drips of tears fell along his face, but it gave the illusion that they had come from someone leaning over him, than from his own eyes.


End file.
